


Don't you know I'm human too

by Builder



Series: Originals [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, OCs - Freeform, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original work - Freeform, Sickfic, Vomiting, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Mike's in recovery for her eating disorder, but that doesn't mean it's done destroying her life.





	Don't you know I'm human too

Mike sits heavily down on the picnic bench and unzips her blue insulated lunchbox.  She has no idea what to expect; Colby had shuffled around the kitchen and then thrown the thing at her after she’d threatened to leave without it.  The others around the table—Mike isn’t sure how to think of them.  Clients?  Patients?  Other among the sick, weak, and damned?—sheepishly unload their packed dinners and surreptitiously glance around at what everyone else is either trying or pretending to eat tonight.

Mike joins in and dumps out a host of ominously heavy items.  There’s a Tupperware of something salad-looking, a glass bottle of kombucha, a baggie of brownish clusters resembling granola cereal, a peach, and a banana bread muffin wrapped in a paper towel.  She organizes the individual parts of her meal across her placemat and realizes with a pang of guilt that it’s probably what Colby intended to eat for tomorrow’s lunch.  Now wasted on her.  Mike’s even less inclined to tuck in.

She gets up from the table both to buy a little time and search down some flatware since Colby neglected to give her any.  The journey across the covered patio and into the home-style kitchen is quick, but conspicuous.  Mike’s barely back in her seat when one of the nutritionists, Krista, brightly asks, “What’cha got there, Michaela?  Looks different from your usual.”

Mike shrugs.  She pulls the top off the Tupperware and reveals a mess of greens topped with what looks like a whole avocado and two or three fistfuls of sunflower seeds. Although she knows the monounsaturated fats in the dish are actually quite beneficial to her overall health, the sheer number of calories within the clear plastic dish seems staggering.  But then again, it was meant for a 6’2” teenaged man.  Not for her.

Krista won’t stop looking at her, so Mike digs her plastic fork into the center of the salad and jams a wad of veg into her mouth.  She takes her time chewing, tasting the bitter greens and creamy avocado and nutty sweetness of the seeds.  She thinks for a second that she understands why Colby prefers these kinds of meals.  It tastes a hell of a lot better than the false chemical sweetness of, say, pop tarts.  But that fucking fat content…

When the allotted dinner hour is up, Mike waits in line.  The mandatory after-dinner private conference with Krista or Deb or one of the other heartless fools who run the outpatient therapy program has to be the worst part of the 4-hour-a-day, 3-day-a-week torture.  A degree in nutrition or psychology isn’t enough to give anyone the right to glance across a table and decide whether an independent, free thinking person should be forced to consume even more calories of dairy-based high-sugar “nutritional” drink.

Mike plays with the zipper on her lunchbox, hoping she won’t have to open it and talk through its remaining contents.  She’d made a decent attempt on everything, but finished nothing.  But she feels full.  She almost feels overfull.  Mike wishes she could go to the bathroom.  She’s learned by now that when the digestive system’s been underused or forced to work in reverse for an extended period of time, it goes into the mode of something like a tiny, sick kitten.  Indigestion just follows eating, and sometimes going to sit on the toilet or just stand around in the bathroom— and decidedly not purge—are necessary measures to deal with impending stomach pains.  But that’s not allowed in the fucking therapy program.  Apparently letting grown adults use the toilet on their own whims is too much of a risk.  So it leaves Mike feeling like, well, like shit.  

“Michaela, you’re up.”  Deb lets the previous girl out of her office and beckons to Mike.

Mike tries not to roll her eyes as she steps into the overly cheerful office with its yellow walls and daisy-centric décor.  Deb is decidedly Mike’s least favorite staff member, and unfortunately, she’s the highest ranking.  She’s a businesswoman, owns the therapy program, and despite not having the proper credentials, gets to tell everyone else what to do and where to go.

“Alright, what did we have tonight?”  Deb’s supremely annoying in way she addresses Mike in the plural.  Like she’s a pair of twin toddlers or something.  “I think I saw some salad across the dinner table.  You know that’s not part of your nutrition plan.”

Ah, yes, the nutrition plan, Mike thinks.  The fucking spreadsheet that seems to place human beings as creatures that consume only macronutrients.  “It wasn’t really a salad.  It was a lot of nuts and avocado,” Mike defends.

“That’s still deficient in protein and carbs,” Deb says back with an overbearing, almost sarcastic patience.

“Plus fruit.  And cereal.  And banana bread,” Mike lists monotonously.

“Nutritionally, that’s not enough.”  Deb scratches her flower-topped pen across a notepad, probably writing something scathing for Mike’s file.

“It was my brother’s boyfriend’s packed lunch,” Mike says, letting her forehead wrinkle into her expression of distaste.  “Some people have a muffin or a cup of cereal for their whole meal.”

“You need to stick to your nutrition plan to normalize your eating habits.”

“Normal people eat what I ate.”  Mike crosses her arms.  Colby probably won’t appreciate being glumped together with everyone else on the planet, but to Mike, his calmness and ability to go with the flow places him distinctly opposed to her on the scale of anxiety.  He’s as decidedly normal as Mike’s not.

“Michaela, I know you don’t like to hear this,” Deb says with a sigh.  She opens the mini fridge behind her desk and pulls out a bottle of nutrition shake.  “A muffin or a cup of cereal isn’t enough to keep a person going.  We need to focus on eating the right things in the right quantity to actually meet your needs.”

“So you’re saying everyone is nutritionally deficient?” Mike snaps.

Deb uncaps the shake and pours out 8 ounces into a marked glass.  She pushes it across the desk toward Mike.  “Here.”

“Can you answer my question?”

“Please drink it,” Deb says, false patience thick in her voice.

“Fucking answer it.”

“Michaela.”

Mike’s stomach cramps a little under her folded arms.  “No, I…it makes my stomach hurt.  My stomach already hurts.”

“Your parents enrolled you in this program because they want to help you get better,” Deb says.  “You owe it to them, and you owe it to yourself.  Let’s lose the excuses.”

Mike tentatively wraps her hand around the glass, trying to crush it with her minimal grip strength.  She almost laughs and shakes her head.  “No, my parents enrolled me because they couldn’t be bothered to drive 2 hours out of the way to come visit, and they didn’t want to impose on my hardworking brother and ask him to babysit me.”

“That’s not true.  Your parents are very caring people.”

“You’ve never met my parents.  Just talked to them on the phone,” Mike snorts.

“Do you want to drink that and get back to the group session?” Deb asks, the false cheerfulness starting to wane.

“You wanna answer my question?” Mike reminds her.

“Michaela,” Deb says firmly.  It’s that tone of voice, the kind that clearly betrays a desire for the other person to submit and obey because it’s somehow the right thing to do.  It’s the way Mike’s mother speaks to her.  The way teachers talk to students, the way people order around their dogs and horses when they’re forcing them to do something.

Mike lifts the glass.  She’s already nauseated before it’s to her lips.  She manages to chug down a sip of the blatantly artificial tasting vanilla beverage before everything comes screeching to a halt.  Mike presses her sleeve to her mouth to keep from belching the milky fluid back up.  She’s 20 years old.  She doesn’t have to be here.  Her parents will only lose money if she leaves.  “I can’t,” she chokes out.

“You need to finish that.”  Deb says it firmly, but then her saccharine smile is back.  “You don’t have to take it all at once.  I can get you some water.  We can stay in here for a while.”

“No.”  Mike gets on her feet.  “No.  I can’t do this anymore.  Any of this.”  She swallows the sour-tinged vanilla taste at the back of her throat.  Her fist closes around the strap of her lunchbox.  Mike towers over Deb, who’s still seated behind the desk.  “You’re a liar and a fraud.  You are the opposite of helpful.  Fuck you.”  She’s shaking with combined lightheadedness and anger.

“Michaela—”

Mike doesn’t hear her finish.  She’s already out of the office and down the hall.

Her car’s parked on the street half a block down from the therapy program’s house-like building.  Mike jumps in it and starts low-key speeding down the street before she realizes she’s about to fall apart.  She just had a confrontation with someone.  She cussed someone out.  She was a total dick to Deb and that feels…amazing?

Mike’s hands are shaking and sweat-slick on the steering wheel.  Her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest.  There’s a throbby ache behind her forehead that’s starting to push her vision into sparkles around the sides.  She needs to calm down.  She needs to breathe.

It’s a 15-minute drive back to the apartment.  Mike’s stomach twists, sending a tendril of hot nausea up her back to erupt in prickles around her neck and jawline.  She has to make it home.

But her breath’s not coming evenly.  Each choppy inhale is shorter than the last, and after a few moments she’s almost gasping.  Mike rolls down the window to invite the fall breeze into her Rav-4.  When she looks up to the view through the windshield, her eyeballs feel foggy.  There’s a siren behind her, and it sends disorienting flashes of red and blue into the car.  Mike tries to pull over, but before she’s sure what’s happened, she’s sideswiped a half-dozen orange barrels and jammed her tire into the curb.

Mike lowers her forehead to the steering wheel, trying to comprehend what she’s gotten herself into while also swallowing the urge to be sick.

“Hello ma’am.  Have you had anything to drink this evening?”  The officer’s standing beside the already-open driver-side window.

“No, I…” Mike says.  There’s entirely too much spit in her mouth.  The still-flashing police lights are giving a strobe effect that isn’t helping with her ability to ground herself in time and space.  She swallows thickly.  “I just—”  The words are lost in a gag that Mike tries to obscure with a hand clapped over her mouth.

“Ma’am?”  The officer yanks the car door open and frees Mike from her seatbelt so she can lean out.  Mike retches, and a spray of whitish fluid hits the asphalt.

“Oh fuck,” Mike chokes.  “I’m sorry.”  She heaves again and brings up more.

“Ok, breathe.  Try to calm down,” the officer instructs.  “You ok?  Just not feeling so hot?”

Mike takes a hitchy breath.  “God.  Yeah, I—” another heave forces its way up her throat, and a weak stream of bile leaves her coughing.

“Alright,” the cop says.

“’M not drunk,” Mike mumbles when she finally has enough breath.

“Yeah, I know.  You don’t smell like alcohol.”  The officer scratches his head.  “You seem pretty sick.  Do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

“No,” Mike whispers.  “I’m ok.”

“You sure you don’t need medical attention?”

“Yeah.”  Mike coughs and wipes her mouth on her sleeve.  “I just…need to go home.”

“I don’t think you should drive right now,” the officer says.

“Huh?”

“I don’t think you hurt your car or anything, but you’re not in good shape to operate your vehicle.”

Oh.  Yeah.  The construction barrels.  It already feels like ages ago.

“Do you have someone to call?” The officer asks.  “I could give you a ride home, but we’d have to tow your car.”

“I don’t know…”  Just the thought of asking for help is turning her stomach again.

“Or I could call paramedics.”

“God, no,” Mike murmurs.    “I, uh, I can call my brother…”  It’s about the last thing Mike wants to do.  She digs her phone out of her back pocket and stares at the lock screen for a moment before clicking back into action.  She fumbles her trembling fingers and selects the contact for Jason.  She lets out an anticipatory sigh as she holds the phone to her ear and listens to it start to ring.

“Yo,” Jason’s deep voice answers.

Mike clears her throat.  “I, uh…”  How is she going to explain this?

“You’re supposed to be in your group until 8, right?” Jason asks.

“Um, I, uh, had to leave,” Mike explains.  She’ll tell him about walking out later.  Maybe.  “I started feeling really sick, and I, uh, started driving home, but…Can you come get me?”  Her heart is a stone plummeting down through her body into the car seat.

“What?”

“I got pulled over.”  The admission’s bringing back the prickly nausea.  “I got sick.”

“Why?”  Jason sounds tired.

“I don’t know.  I was swerving or something.”

“No, Mike.  Geez.  Why?”  He’s not asking why she got pulled over.  It’s another thing Mike’s learned the hard way.  Once someone learns that she has one of _those_ eating disorders, it’s like she’s not allowed to be sick for any other reason.

“I—It wasn’t on purpose.  I’m fine.  I just got nauseous.  I’m fine.  I…” Mike’s about to gag.  “Will you and Colby come get me so the cops don’t tow my fucking car?”  She holds the speaker into her chest while she leans over to let out a wet, belchy cough that doesn’t bring up anything.  She’s almost glad her body’s deciding to rebel so she has something to focus on besides the shame of being week and needy.

Jason’s mid-sentence when she gets the phone back to her ear.  “…on our way.  Just, like, chill for a little bit.  You’re probably all wound up.”

“Thanks,” Mike mutters.  She hangs up, then leans back in the seat and closes her eyes.

“You’ve got him on the way?” the cop asks.

Mike nods.  She realizes she stupidly didn’t tell Jason where she is, but she assumes he’ll just start driving toward the therapy center and find her pretty quickly.

She sits in awkward silence with the cop leaning against the car frame for a while.  He asks once or twice if she’s ok, but stays mercifully quiet when Mike just nods and slumps sideways into the velour seat.  Eventually she recognizes Jason’s black sedan as it pulls into a parking lot across the street.  He jumps out, all pale legs in seasonally inappropriate basketball shorts, and dashes across the deserted road.  Colby’s on his heels, looking like an overgrown loyal dog.

“Hey, thanks for looking out for her,” Jason says to the officer.  He looks at Mike, and she can almost see his hardheartedness melting away.  She must have no color.

“Alright, you look like trash,” Jason says by way of greeting.  “I’ll get you home.”

The officer wishes them well and takes his leave.  Mike feels like she can finally think a little once the flashing lights are out of her visual field.

“You wanna jump in the other side?”  Jason asks, gesturing for Mike to vacate the driver’s seat.

She steps down unsteadily, avoiding the splash of vomit just outside the door.  She doesn’t look forward to being stuck in the car with her brother.  Mike can practically see Jason’s thought bubble.  He’ll ask a lot of questions.  Want to know what happened.  Mike’s having a hard enough time reconciling it for herself, and she doesn’t anticipate her brother having a great understanding of the way certain foods and emotions tend to turn her sensitive stomach.

“You know, why don’t I drive this one?” Colby offers as Jason’s about to hop into the seat Mike just left.  “You’re car’s too small for long legs.”  It’s not a great excuse since Colby only has a couple inches on Jason.  He meets eyes with Mike and raises his blonde eyebrows.

“Yeah, sure,” Jason sighs.  There’s no way he doesn’t know what’s up, but he has the grace to pretend to be oblivious.  “See you back home.”  He crosses back to his own car.

Colby deftly climbs into the Rav-4.  “You know he’s pissed cause he cares,” he says to Mike, who has her temple pressed against the passenger window.

“Yeah,” she says.  “Just…feel like I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

“I’ll save the lecture, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mike repeats.

Colby stays silent for a while.  Then he asks, “Was it the food I packed?  That made you not feel good?”

“I don’t think so,” Mike murmurs.  “I think it was probably…a lot of stuff.”

“Ok.”  Colby knows not to press.  He turns into the parking lot of their apartment complex.

As they’re gliding into a spot, Mike bluntly asks, “Why’d you care about me?”

“Cause you deserve to be cared about?”  It’s less a question than a statement of _duh_.  “I know you don’t always think so, but it’s true.”

“Huh.”

Colby puts the car in park and removes the keys from the ignition.  “So, if you’re not opposed to my cooking, you wanna maybe join us for breakfast in the morning?  I’ve convinced Jason to let me make him something other than pop tarts.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll think about it,” Mike says.  It’s too early to tell how she’ll be feeling in the morning.  But she really does intend to think about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Mike, Jason, and Colby live over on Tumblr. Feel free to visit them there and drop a request if you have one. Find me @Builder051.


End file.
